Terms of Endearment
by Myrrhee
Summary: "...find a Delaware-speaking woman for Uncas, she will say 'you are the one', bear him many children", Nathaniel had told the Camerons. One of the many ways in which a little Scottish girl might have been that woman. Bite-sized canon-divergent oneshots, UncasAlice.
1. The In-Joke

Uncas should have known it would be coming.

His wounds have begun to itch in the way wounds do when new skin is working to grow into them. He can now be counted on for guard duty, and his arm can finally be trusted on his tomahawk.

And, if he can judge by the slight smirk that his white brother keeps putting on whenever Alice drifts close to him as they walk, he is also far away enough from death that as to be made fun of again.

It starts very small – every time Nathaniel catches his eye when Alice is anywhere near the young Mahican, his brother's mouth will turn up ever so slightly. Since Alice seems to have decided that she much enjoys being his shadow, this is often.

(Uncas can't resent her for it, even as he doesn't quite understand what it means.)

Then Alice begins to sit nearest to him when they eat, and Nathaniel's mouth turns up more. Then she starts to talk to him, drawing him into conversation. When Uncas begins to answer her curious questions with one or two more details than the enquiries demands he do, Nathaniel's eyes start becoming cunning as a hawk's.

Uncas knows there is a joke afoot, of course. He's only surprised that his brother is letting it soak for this long.

* * *

They are at a river, drinking and briefly washing their hands and faces before moving on, when it finally happens.

" _Na-tah-can_." Uncas looks up at the use of 'younger brother'. Nathaniel has come to crouch beside him and gives him a look that should be serious. "We'll have to change our plans for the winter, looks like."

Nathaniel is speaking Mahican in a low voice, so that at first it seems like he's about to say something important. Then his mouth turns up a little at the corners, so slightly he thinks only he and their father would be able to notice, and Uncas knows his white brother isn't thinking about routes to Ohio or avoiding the British.

"For one, we'll have to start teaching the little golden rabbit some Delaware."

Uncas swats a mighty sheet of water at Nathaniel as the latter, laughing, lunges out of range.


	2. The Education of Alice Munro

It's the second night after the battle at the cliff side, and Uncas, barely recovered as he is, should not be taking his musket and setting himself up against a tree to guard the Munro sisters.

Which of course means that Uncas has taken up his musket, sat against a tree with many a painful gasp, and is currently helping guard the Munro sisters.

Nathaniel is taking his leave of Cora for the night watch, a process that seems to involve a lot of subtle touches. They both clearly wish the other could stay close all night, but Cora is unarmed. Uncas is faintly amused at this for a moment before remembering how close they came to losing each other, and his amusement becomes a somewhat melancholy happiness.

He is glad for what they have. The melancholy, he supposes, is his awareness of this happiness being his brother and Cora's alone.

On the feet of that thought comes a question, and Uncas looks around the small camp for Alice.

Alice is (and Uncas can feel his eyebrows rise) talking to their father.

Talking seems a terribly informal word for what's happening, Uncas thinks next. Alice is sitting up, back straight and hands in her lap, alternatively looking down at the ground or looking at Chingachgook with a look that mixes surprise and rapt attention. Then she and Chingachgook will exchange words very briefly, and then his father will resume talking for a lengthier period.

A movement at the edge of his vision makes him look away from the scene – Cora is coming towards him, probably to check on his bandages.

"Good evening, Uncas." Cora smiles, Uncas lifts his shirt obligingly, and the process is over in a matter of minutes. "Still bleeding." Her eyes are warm, if reproachful, when he lowers his shirt again "I wish you would take a break from guard duty, if only for one night."

"I can't, miss." Uncas wonders when Cora's blanket of sisterly protectiveness has come to fall over him, but it amuses and endears him in turn.

Cora sighs. "And here I thought you were the gentle brother." She says it without annoyance, and therefore Uncas smiles at her. "Just be sure to tell me if it begins to hurt or heat." The movement of a soundless shadow makes them both look up to see Chingachgook heading for the western edge of their camp. "Well, that's the lesson concluded." Cora makes to stand up.

"What lesson?"

"Oh, didn't you know? Your father offered to teach Alice some Delaware." Cora adjusts her skirts and wanders back to the fire as if what she has said is perfectly normal.


	3. The Right Word, part 1

They've set up camp close to a river whose name Alice hasn't asked for, and the haul has been plentiful. The feeling of safety, transient as it may be, and the undeniably delicious smell of spit-roasted fish has them all in a good mood – even Uncas is sitting up in his makeshift cot of leaves and a jacket, with a softness around his cheeks that might turn into a smile soon.

Alice, for her part, wonders if she could be any more miserable.

They may have survived that scuffle on the mountainside against the Hurons some days ago, but Uncas is still badly hurt. So much that he literally cannot stand up and stand guard with his father and brother at nights, after each day's travel jars and irritates his many wounds.

There's no need for her limited knowledge of nursing with Cora's experienced hands around. Had he been anyone else, Alice would have tried to help by feeding him, but though she has only known Uncas for a few short days, she knows he'll be more upset than gratified for her help.

If there's anything in the world Alice understands, it's how much consideration can hurt someone when they're at their weakest.

But the fact remains that Uncas is wounded because of her, and the knowledge that she can't do a thing for him in return threatens to break her heart. Her guilt is so vast, she's taken to hiding from him, keeping as close to the front (Uncas always brings up the rear) during the day, and keeping to the other side of his improvised bed at night, watching him from across the fire.

Like she's doing right now.

"Something wrong, kid?" Alice turns: Nathaniel has appeared beside her as if by magic. She's stopped being surprised by his velvet tread, but she thinks she might never stop being awed by it.

She sighs. "Nothing at all, Mr. Poe." She's secretly afraid that he might resent her for what happened. Might wish that she was taken, and his younger brother spared the cruelty of Magua's knife. Alice acknowledges the thought is ridiculous, but it sticks to her mind with ferocity.

Nathaniel looks as though he'd like to believe her and go back to gutting fish by the fire. Then his eyes flick upward, in the general direction of Cora, and he sits to her left without ceremony.

Alice is immediately miffed. "Did my sister put you up to this?"

"Yes. That doesn't mean I don't also want to help you." Nathaniel looks at her pointedly, and all her anger is gone in a second.

She likes Nathaniel Poe, Alice realizes. She likes how he says what he thinks bluntly, how she's never left guessing when he is involved.

Oblivious to her musings, Nathaniel plows into the issue at hand. "You're sad, you're quiet, and you keep looking at my brother like you're not sure if you want to run at him, or far away from him."

"He's hurt because of me," Alice confesses in a desperate whisper.

"Nope. He's hurt because he went after a party of around thirteen armed Hurons, alone like a damn fool."

"He wouldn't have if I-"

"If you hadn't what?" Nathaniel's tone isn't chastising, it's matter of fact. "Hadn't been Munro's daughter? Hadn't come to America? Hadn't existed?"

"If I hadn't let him…hold me beneath the waterfall."

This is apparently news to Nathaniel, whose fair blue eyes widen to the size of saucers. He turns to stare at Uncas, who Alice is shocked to discover is looking at them already. Her cheeks color. "Nothing untoward happened."

Nathaniel looks at her like he doesn't believe her. _Or more like he does, and can't believe anything happened in the first place_ , Alice thinks with chagrin.

With another disbelieving glance at his brother, Nathaniel gets up to tend to the fish. "Be back." Alice watches him go, mindful not to look around in case Uncas is still looking at her.

* * *

True to his word, Nathaniel comes back to her soon. He hands her a bowlful of fish (Alice can't remember the last time anything smelled so good) and mimes at her to take a bite. When Alice finally maneuvers a crumble of white skin off its bones and into her mouth with her fingers, Nathaniel takes a deep breath.

"There's a word in Delaware. It's like 'thank you', only they don't use it like the English do. Nobody ever says it to you for passing the salt - it's for really big things, favors from heaven. Salvation from death." He smiles at her shock. "I'll teach it to you – if you can promise you'll use it."

It sounds like a dreadfully small thing, but if it's better than 'thank you', and much better than nothing, Alice will take it. She nods vigorously.

" _Wanìshi_." Nathaniel shapes the word carefully. It sounds abrupt in the middle, like he's breathed inward halfway through the word. He repeats it once more, " _wanìshi_ ", and then it is Alice's turn.

Nathaniel has her repeat it back to him a few times before he is satisfied. "Good enough." He looks at her, serious, and Alice realizes he is assesing far more than just her pronounciation. "Good enough," he repeats, then goes back to eat his own fish at Cora's side.

* * *

 _A/N: Credit for the Lenape/Delaware in this oneshot goes to the "Lenape Talking Dictionary", found online._


	4. The Interlude

"Did you have to get Mr. Poe to speak to me, Cora? Couldn't you have come and confronted me yourself?" Alice's tone isn't angry or rebuking. It's small and meek – timid of being treated, once more, as the unruly child. Even though the event is now in the past, Alice's cheeks still color.

The expression pulls at Cora's heartstrings. "Oh Alice," her arm goes to rest her little sister's shoulders, hugging her closer. "Lord knows I love you dearly, but I asked you what was wrong every day, more than once, for three days and you didn't even try to lie to me. I worried, yes, perhaps overmuch, and sent in the cavalry – because I love you."

Cora knows Alice has had to endure a significant lack of attention since their lives took a turn towards the near-catastrophic. They've had to concentrate so hard on survival, the quality of their lives and their feelings have had to be pushed back to places of lesser importance.

Yes, Cora also knows she's now reacting by overcompensating – she's gone from being content with the mere fact that all Alice's limbs are still on her person, to experiencing a vague sense of alarm every time Alice looks too long or too hard at a point in the horizon. It's jarring, to see the empty stare she's sometimes seen on soldiers at the surgery on her little sister's face.

But then again, Cora can confess that everything is jarring, now. Every harm too violent, too fierce to bear after almost losing her little golden-haired sister. Nathaniel has joked that she looks ready to defend Alice from burrs and butterflies these days, and Cora could scarcely laugh at him.

To Cora's surprise, a tiny, fragile smile comes to Alice's face. " _Nathaniel Poe_ is the cavalry now?"

 _Yes, yes he is_ , whispers Cora to the silence of her mind. It seems Alice really did need nothing but the words of someone with a less convoluted view of the word. Out loud, however, Cora presses for lightness: "Would it make you smile again if we pretended he is?"

Alice's laugh is merry, devoid of all the dark things that have plagued them for so long. It rings out into the forest, upsetting one or two birds, and Cora worries that they'll be chastened for being noisy, but a quick look around assures her all is well.

(In fact, she wonders if Uncas, far at the back of the group, might not have been hiding a smile.)


	5. The Fever Dreams of Uncas

When Uncas wakes up that night, sweat pouring out of every part of his body, there's a book excerpt of Reverend Wheelock's branded so vividly in his thoughts, he's sure he's been dreaming of the man.

He's forgotten the author and a portion of the text, but the part that interests him is there: _the final hour when we cease to exist does not of itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process. We reach death at that moment, but we have been a long time on the way._

The phrase is about not fearing death, since death begins at the moment of birth. Tonight, however, Uncas decides it will be about all the small decisions that have led to his being here, lying still instead of keeping guard, chest cut up like he's a badly butchered elk at the end of a hunt.

Uncas thinks the phrase can be neatly adapted for his use as follows: _I am a damn fool. I have been a damn fool always, but I reached the end of the fool-process tonight. Or maybe 'the process in which I discovered I was a fool' has reached the end tonight._

Someone approaches him through the dark. Whoever is coming isn't one of the women, and the steps are not entirely quiet, so it isn't a vengeful Huron brave. A few moments later, there is a hand at his head helping him sit up, and someone is pressing a water skin to his lips. Uncas drinks deeply, gripping the hide with fervor, while the hand at his head goes down to the curve of his neck for a better hold, catching and pulling at Uncas' hair.

Nathaniel. Their father's touches are gentle, but far more practical.

When he's drunk his fill, his brother eases him back down. The hand that was at his neck is then shoved unceremoniously up Uncas' side to check the bandages. The pain of being roughly handled is almost bearable, but coupled with the heat in his body, the uncomfortable sensation that comes with the healing and the pain that was already there, his brother's hand manages to make the slightest hint of a groan slip past Uncas' courageously firm lips.

The hand withdraws, and Nathaniel leans over to whisper to him in Mahican. "Think you will live, _na-ta-can_?"

"Will saying I choose to die get you to stop pawing my wounds like a bear?"

The fire is burning too low at this point to see, but Uncas is sure Nathaniel is smiling. He moves, and Uncas realizes he might mean to go wake up Cora – he seizes his brother's wrist in a flash. "No."

"Your skin feels hot."

"Nothing she can do. I do not trust the Yengeese leech treatment."

He knows Nathaniel will listen. The muscles in his wrist relax, and Uncas lets it go in response. "I will trust you _na-ta-can_. I only ask you not to die. You cannot die until you've confessed your feelings to the little rabbit."

Uncas sighs, saying nothing, and the phrase he heard from Reverend Wheelock returns.

It feels like both too much and too little time has passed since his family came upon a Huron war party, cutting down a British company like they were stalks of wheat. He noticed the little girl in pink like he noticed the entire scene, taking in as much of his surroundings as possible to better locate and fight his enemy. He felt nothing but vague amusement at how she tried to run after the horses.

And now here he is, suffering of the wounds he gladly accepted in defense of Alice Munro. Wounds he knew he might have died of.

 _The final hour in which I ran foolishly to my near death did not bring my death, it merely…of itself…completes the process._

But the process of what?

Before he can walk the dark path any longer, Nathaniel's voice breaks the silence. "I think you are thinking too hard. You didn't do that when you left our father and I to scale the promontory – why do it now?"

Why indeed. Could it be as simple as that, that he fell in love with Alice Munro, and some part of him that his mind's eye can't see yet raced up the mountain simply because of that?

And then a hand pats his wounds over his shirt, hard, scattering his thoughts like frightened deer. "Why are you quiet? Did you die?"

"I will hand you over to the next group who asks for you, if you do that again." Le français, the British, the Huron, the Ottawa, Matanto of the bats and stinging insects – anyone and everyone is welcome to Nathaniel Poe's infuriating hide.

"You would leave your sister-in-law a widow before her wedding?"

" _Netohcon_!"

The sound of Nathaniel's contained laughter, which always sounds like he's trying to cough up something, comes through the dark. His brother puts a hand to Uncas' wounds again, but this time there's no pressure. It's a brother's affectionate gesture. "I'll leave you to sleep now that you're better." Nathaniel gets to his feet soundlessly, picking up his musket as he rises, and slips away to resume the light sleep of those who keep guard.

The distraction has worked, however, and Uncas thinks he can go to sleep once more. If Reverend Wheelock were kind enough to slip back into his dreams, to lend him a hand in untangling his thoughts and his feelings, Uncas believes he may have the answer to the mystery of the process before dawn.

* * *

 _(1) netohcon: one of the words for 'elder brother' in Mohican. Taken from the book "Mohican Dictionary" by Lion G. Miles, found online  
(2) Matanto: a spirit of death and destruction for the Lenape/Delaware, which became associated with the Devil once Christianity arrived at the continent; the Mohican have their own name for him, which is Atlantow, but I couldn't warm up to the name, much as I tried.  
(3) The phrase about death is credited to Seneca the Younger_


	6. The Right Word, part 2

Uncas spends three more difficult nights. On the morning of the fourth day, as if the heat and the pain have moved something within him, he opens his eyes to discover his limbs feel easy, some of his old strength in them. That's enough for him. He knows the rest of it will return in time.

Reverend Wheelock doesn't return to his dreams. Awake, his mind is quiet, as if it's waiting for something – or as if he has, in fact, found something, and needs time to make sense of what it is.

On the fourth night, Cora says nothing when he doesn't go to his makeshift pallet, and Nathaniel simply nods when Uncas goes for his musket and takes his place at the side of the camp that has remained their blind, unguarded spot for every night he's had to rest.

His time as the hurt little bird is over. For the first time in a long time, he knows his hands will operate his musket like they should, and Uncas knows peace.

* * *

The fire has burned very low when a small white bundle, who'd lain close to the dying light, starts to move very slightly, to one side and then the next. It makes Uncas think of the swaying shell of a tortoise, stuck with its legs towards the sky.

Finally, Alice seems to find the strength to get up. She looks around for a long time before setting off in his general direction, her steps hesitant and light, cringing at the slightest of sounds. Uncas follows her with his eyes, at every step reminded of why they've taken to calling her a rabbit when speaking about her in Mahican.

When she's ten steps away, and five to the side, she finally gives up trying to guess where he is. "Uncas…?"

" _Neech_ ", he answers softly, Mohican for 'child', because all Alice is asking of him right now is a noise she can find him by, not a word she can understand. Alice jumps again at the sound, but she finally catches sight of him after much blinking at the dark.

Her white dress, faded little flowers at the shoulders, can probably be seen for miles in every direction, but Uncas is at ease in knowing that he can protect her– when she sinks down beside him, his peace does not leave.

Alice, by contrast, looks more uneasy than ever she did: she twitches, moves her hands in her lap, looks to one side, looks to the other, then nibbles on her lower lip. The movement makes her nose move; little rabbit, indeed.

 _A rabbit is a nervous being. They cannot handle a stalking predator for too long – they'll think they've been found, and bolt, even if you have seen nothing of them yet._

Uncas waits.

They haven't been at this curious game for very long before the sound of quiet tears, punctuated by watery breaths, starts at his side.

Slowly, displacing grass and leaves between them deliberately so the sounds will warn her, Uncas slides sideways a little. Laying his musket aside, his arm goes around the trembling form of Alice, drawing her against his side.

Unexpectedly, Alice turns, so that the front of her body is pressed to his side, and her face buries itself in his shirt awkwardly. She's saying words to the cloth, but all he can hear of them is the desperate tone of her voice as she speaks them – they might not even be words at all.

Uncas simply holds her, single-armed. He feels…happy.

He wonders what can possibly be wrong with him, finding relief in a girl's tears, but the answer is right there, obvious and easily caught as a lazy summer fish: if she cries, it means she cares. It means that whatever has brought her here, away from the firelight, is strong enough to overcome her fear and the ghost-like emptiness beyond fear she slips into sometimes.

If she cries, it's because there is life in her.

" _W_ - _Wanìshi_."

He turns to look at her. Alice has tilted her head up, so that their noses almost bump when Uncas turns, but the crash is avoided, and Uncas stares at her. He wonders if she can see the question in his eyes.

" _Wanìshi._ " Alice reaches up to brush the remaining tears from her eyes with her fingertips.

She has trouble shaping the middle 'ish' sound. Uncas ponders on the things he'd teach a person of Delaware, far before getting into the elaborate maze that is this particular one. Action words, words about things in daily life, like corn or fish or even rabbit. Far be it from him to question his father's method, but of all the words…

"Do you know what you're saying, little rabbit?"

Alice laughs, her throat still rough with tears. "Thank you, but not the 'thank you' the British use when someone passes them the salt."

Uncas can't help but laugh silently as well, the arm around Alice shaking along with his shoulders.

"What are you thanking me for?"

"For…everything." Faintly shining streaks glimmer on Alice's cheeks: she is still crying, even if her voice has become even. Uncas wonders if it's all the tears she's been keeping inside since George Road, since the Huron ambush, since the cliffs, pouring out of her small body to make way for other things. _Better things, maybe._

But Alice is still talking. "You risked your life for me. Again and again. You've waited and watched me. You…you saved my life. At the cliffs, under the waterfall." Uncas feels a small, cold hand reach up to wrap around his wrist, right above his bracelets. "This world made everything unfamiliar. And then there was you, and…you weren't a stranger."

Uncas brings her closer to his side, nearly compressing her small form into his chest, and Alice clings closer, tighter, as if this isn't enough. There's no passion in her anxious movements (and how could there be, when she's still so worn thin), just a desperate need to know that he is there, whole and alive. There is relief, disbelief, and just a little sadness, because there has been loss on the road that's brought them here.

Neither moves to kiss the other. Uncas thinks it's half because the very air warns them it isn't the right time yet, half because this means letting go of each other: he's only held Alice Munro properly once before, but he wonders how he lived for so long without doing it again.

…this is it, then. This is why he followed Magua alone.

Nathaniel will laugh and their father will ask him why he thought he'd been teaching Alice the language of the Lenape. Uncas can't speak for Cora, but he's reasonably sure she won't try to shoot him in his sleep.

And Alice, more aware and more innocent that he is at the same time, burrows at his side, and he knows she will refuse to sleep anywhere but where she is right now tonight.


	7. The Veredict of Chingachgook

The road to Ohio is long. While they will hunt on the way, their priority is to arrive there and settle the women, not trap and linger as they go.

Chingachgook is worried for how they will react to two Yengeese, more when they learn that they are the daughters of Colonel Munro. Their kin to the west may have remained apart from the ravages of the many fights, but the Lenape have chosen the French often over the course of the war. It will not be enemy territory, but it will be hostile. And it will surprise the tribe in the worst way, whenever Uncas and the girl with hair the color of the moon finally stop circling each other.

That day may come sooner than he thought: he could see the white of her dress beside the shadow that was Uncas the night before.

"My father."

Chingachgook doesn't turn to look at his Mahican son, who has exchanged his place at the back with Nathaniel and now walks at his side, but he does prepare himself to listen, and he is sure Uncas will understand that he has his attention.

"You have been teaching the youngest daughter of the general Delaware."

"Yes. She will need it, as will the eldest. They cannot always depend upon you and my white son." The three of them will not be always shadowing them, and there will be those amongst the Lenape who would try to take advantage of their ignorance.

"Why did you not ask me to help?"

"Your older brother is teaching the eldest for reasons that are clear. I am teaching the youngest because time is short, and her progress would be slow if she had you for a teacher."

It is a testament to the depth of his feelings that Uncas thinks this is a personal attack. "Do you think me so bad a teacher, my father?"

"No. I believe the youngest daughter will be too full of emotions to focus. And you are full of emotions too, if you believe there is an insult in my words."

Uncas radiates surprise. Chingachgook finds himself amused. His sons forget that he has seen them grow into men, that he knows them well. "I did not know what I wanted or why, or I would have told you."

"You choose a hard road." Hard for them, hard for their children when they come. They will be at home nowhere. Regardless of whether the French or the British win the war, there will be laws forbidding them to get married. Amongst his cousins, whatever the fragile girl has not, be it cooking skills or weaving skills, or the stoic and unaffected manner of his people, will be noticed and much disapproved.

But Uncas will only care for the approval of a handful of people. As if he can hear his thoughts, Uncas steps closer, his voice a mixture of eagerness and fear: "You accept?"

Chingachgook might have disapproved, if all he'd known of her were the scared child he saw on the George Road. He would have quietly stood aside and warned Uncas that trying to keep such a being with him would be like trying to grip a thin tendril of smoke.

Teaching her Lenape has taught _him_ better. She is afraid, yes. She is continually taken by surprise by the harshness of their world. But despite the hardships she has chosen to stay, and to sit dutifully through his instruction of the Delaware words that may best help her survive. She is soft, but she is enduring. And, most importantly, she has chosen Uncas. Uncas and the hard road he offers her, when she could have gone back to England to be treated like a princess.

Uncas would have submitted to settling down and starting a family as part of his duty, but the Delaware girl Chingachgook had constructed for Uncas in his mind has begun to look all wrong – she would not have the power to sit with him in his sadness as well as his joy. This imaginary Delaware girl will never know how his face fell as he stood in the destroyed Cameron homestead, because Delaware women stay at camp when the warriors leave. She will not know the focused arc of his tomahawk, will never know the pain of seeing him determined to fight to his death for her.

Only the little rabbit has seen Uncas at his best – and only she has made that reckless fierceness come out.

Uncas will learn in time that it was his brother who taught her a word that she had needed for a different kind of survival. The girl will learn the secret that is at the heart of the word, that their people, who are not without their evils, at least try to give more importance to actions than to things that are simply said. And both of them will have to learn to find their home in the small spaces between Cora, Nathaniel and himself.

"I accept."

Uncas' steps become livelier, happier. Chingachgook wonders if he will receive a slightly butchered _wanìshi_ for this.

\- end -


End file.
